


His Lie

by teenage_hustler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Light Dom/sub, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenage_hustler/pseuds/teenage_hustler
Summary: It starts, as always, with a knock at the door.This was originally written as a gift for LJ user meiri_fics in 2010's Hermione Smut exchange on Livejournal. And here I am writing one of my favourite types of fic - unrequited love where being in love is out of character. Or something. Maybe I just enjoy trying to bum people out with a love that cannot be.





	His Lie

It starts, as always, with a knock at the door.

He knows it’s her. Even on this night, with the fall of heavy rain dulling any other sound, he recognises the knock. Somehow, like with everything about her, the way she knocks on his door is unique.

He approaches the door and opens it to see her standing before him. Her clothes, wet and slightly translucent from the rain, adhere to her body, showing off every line, every curve, every part of her that he knows only too well. Her hair falls down her neck and shoulders in dripping waves. She shivers from the wet and the cold, and her eyes, wide and enormous and that ever-familiar intoxicating shade of dark brown, focus on him as she whispers his name through chattering teeth and pale lips: “Blaise.”

~*~

Had it rained that first night as well? He couldn’t remember. But her clothes had been damp. Perhaps she had walked past one of those Muggle contraptions used to water gardens? She tended not to Apparate, preferring the tranquillity of walking, as she called it. How much tranquillity there was in an activity that got your clothes drenched from rain and strange Muggle watering contraptions alike, he wasn’t sure. But he did not question it. She had the ability to see things differently to others. It was part of what made her unique.

When she came that first night, he had cautiously let her in and she had mentioned white wine – that was it! She and Ron had been arguing, and he had thrown a near-full glass of white wine at her. Too upset to think to perform a Cleaning Charm, she had stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

~*~

It is against another door – his own – that he slams her body now. The banging noise her head makes when it hits the hard wood would be enough to concern most people, but he knows by this stage that concern is the thing she wants second-to-least right now, right after delicacy.

He kisses her, although “kiss” is far too nice a word for the action he performs. This is more a case of him smashing his mouth aggressively against hers, thrusting his tongue inside her mouth without any obvious regard for pleasantries, thereby swallowing any noises of protest she might be apt to make. Not that she would make any such noise. This is exactly what she wants, and exactly what he will give her. This is his act. His performance.

His lie.

After some moments he removes his mouth from hers, moving instead to her neck. He pulls away the curls of hair that have stuck to her sensitive skin and starts to suck. He feels her knees give way and pushes her further into the door with his body, keeping her steady. He ignores the cold and wet from her clothes seeping into his.

“He keeps saying he wants kids,” she huffs out breathlessly.

“Mmm,” he mumbles.

~*~

“He wants kids,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows, offering her a large mug of tea. She had performed the necessary Cleaning Charm and was now sitting on his large couch, her knees drawn to her chin. He sat next to her and set his own mug on the table in front of them.

“I wouldn’t have thought that cause for violence with alcoholic beverages,” he replied.

She offered him a grim smile. “Well, you’ve only really known him for six months, haven’t you? You don’t know yet how little it takes to make him loose with his drinks, so to speak.”

“I’m sure.” He took a contemplative sip of tea. “Saying that he wants kids isn’t a little thing though, I’m guessing?”

She shook her head. “I mean, he says and thinks a lot of things that I don’t see eye to eye with him on, and some of them are little and quite petty. But raising children…” another shake of the head “…I’m just not ready for that yet.” 

~*~

“I’m just … not ready … for that yet,” she pants. Her hands are now clutching desperately at his shoulders, and her head is turned up, elongating her neck for him. Already she bears two or three red marks that he knows she will spend the next three days wearing high-collared blouses to cover. “I have … my career …”

“Mmm,” he repeats, knowing he doesn’t need to say anything more. His fingers slip between them, feeling for the buttons of her white blouse. He finds them, and then ignores them, choosing instead to rip at the front of her shirt until it comes completely undone. Buttons fly everywhere.

“Oh, Merlin,” she gasps, as his mouth goes down lower to lick the stray drops of water off her upper chest. “More, Blaise! More!”

~*~

“More?” he asked, pointing at her now-empty mug.

She looked down at the mug in surprise. Clearly she hadn’t realised that she’d drunk it all. She bit her lip. “If I say no, can I still stay here?”

He chuckled. “You’re hardly unpleasant company.”

She breathed out, obviously relieved. “Thank you. I just really don’t want to go back to him right now.”

He nodded, took the mug away from her and placed it on the coffee table, next to his.

“May I speak plainly?” he asked her.

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s very formal of you. Of course, you may. What is it?”

He paused for a moment, gathering the correct sentences in his head. “Well, as much as I think Ron is a top bloke, and a fantastic person to work with, it seems like you two fight pretty much all the time.” 

She nodded, her eyes full of understanding. “You’re wondering why I don’t leave him?” she asked.

“Exactly. It seems as though that would be a really good course of action for both of you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I know this probably sounds really strange, but despite all of the strife he gives me, I love him so much. I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving him.”

~*~

“I love him,” she says hoarsely, letting him lift her up and carry her to the bedroom, her legs wrapped around his waist. “You know I love him, don’t you, Blaise?”

“I do,” he answers. The first words he’s said to her all evening. They reach his bedroom and collapse onto the bed, his weight pressing her into the mattress.

“I’ll never stop loving him,” she continues. 

“I know,” he says, his fingers now nimbly undoing her favourite jeans with well-practised skill. He does know, as well. She says that she loves her husband every single time, at around this point. And she isn’t lying either because she never lies. 

No, that is not strictly true. There is one instance, just one, where she lies.

He, on the other hand, lies all the time. It is both a requirement for his job as an Auror, and a character trait that he has nourished practically since birth. It is, he believes, his greatest skill, and he uses it for all its worth.

She is below him now, naked apart from her bra and knickers. She looks up at him and smiles, almost shyly.

“Am I beautiful, Blaise?” she asks, a hint of red gracing her round cheeks.

He frowns, looking away from her. “You will not speak until I let you.”

~*~

“’You will not speak until I let you’?” he repeated, his mouth forming into a strange and rather ugly shape. “Why did you say that to him? Seems a bit dominant of you, don’t you think?”

For a fraction of a second – one that he almost didn’t notice – he saw her eyes light up with excitement. He was very sure he hadn’t imagined that look, but in the next moment she was back to her previous slightly pissed-off state of being. How peculiar.

“I don’t know why I said it,” she said, her brow creased in thought. “Maybe I just wanted him to shut up. That was when he threw the wine at me.”

“Well, you can’t really blame him for that, can you?” he asked, directing his gaze away from her, “I mean, if you have denied him the right to speak, how else is he going to express himself—oof!”

A large, soft missile came hurtling into his face. He looked back to see her holding the missile – a cushion – and regarding him with narrowed eyes. He didn’t miss the twinkle in them, however.

“You bastard,” she said. “I’m trying to gain some sympathy for my cause here.”

“Well,” he replied, his fingers tightening around the corner of the matching cushion behind his back, “you might want to try and say things that aren’t so ridiculous before hoping that you’ll get much sympathy from me … HA!” As he spoke, he reeled the cushion up and brought it crashing down onto her head. She gasped, surprised, at the impact, but quickly recovered and ducked, just missing his second blow.

“You’re going to pay for that,” she said, and before he could react she smacked him in the face again.

“Is this a challenge?” he asked. “Because if it is, I accept.” 

“Oh Merlin, no!” She leapt off the couch and ran out of the room. He grinned and followed her, cushion ready. Walking down his narrow hallway, he saw no trace of her. He stopped at the entrance to his bedroom, confused. Where could she have gone in such a small place—

_WHUMP!_

Her cushion came out of nowhere, smacking directly into his face. He blinked dazedly, opening his eyes properly after a few moments to find her standing in front of him, just inside his bedroom.

“I hid next to the door,” she explained, grinning. “And to think that out of the two of us, you’re the Auror.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Well, yes. We _catch_ wizards and witches. We don’t hide from them.” Matching her grin, he leant closer to her and whispered “speaking of catching…”

“No!” she gasped, but it was too late. He had her around the middle, and before she could say “unhand me, you ruffian!” or something equally clever, she had been thrown onto his bed, with him pinning her down. Escape was impossible.

“I could have you arrested for this,” she said, giggling.

“I know,” he answered lightly.

They looked at each other, both still laughing. Then, gradually, their laughter subsided, to be replaced with a seriousness neither had seen in the other before. A seriousness they couldn’t look away from.

He tried to speak first. “Herm—“

“No,” she interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything.”

And before he could think to disobey, or do any other sort of action, she had managed to pull him down, and he was kissing her.

~*~

Kissing her is like everything else involving her; unique. She has a way of gripping his head, of making small noises in the back of her throat, of running her tongue along the bottom of his mouth that he has never and will never get from anybody else.

He feels her fingers at the waistband of his trousers and forgets himself for a moment. His fingers relax around her upper arms, which he normally grips until he leaves bruises. He lifts himself slightly from her so he isn’t crushing her with his weight, and, most significantly, he places a hand just under her chin, cupping her face. He retracts his tongue, just a fraction, from inside her mouth. As he kisses her now, he does it with care and precision, as though she is something precious and delicate, whose flavour he wants to savour for as long as he can. His eyes flutter closed as he tastes her, truly tastes her, for the first time in Merlin knows how long.

Before too long he feels knuckles rapping at his shoulder and opens his eyes again. She is looking at him curiously, her other hand still at his trousers, now unzipped but not pulled down. He stops the kiss and sits up.

“What are you doing?” she asks, forgetting that she is not to speak unless he lets her.

He swallows, forgetting to discipline her. He wants to hit himself. He hasn’t lost control like this with her in a long time. He has to be more careful, because if he isn’t, then she will start to suspect what it will not do at all for her to suspect.

The truth.

He smiles crookedly, leaning over her again. “Trying something new. Didn’t you like it?”

She frowns. “Not really.”

“Won’t happen again, then,” he assures her, gripping her tightly and crushing his lips to hers as he had before.

“Yes,” she sighs when he leaves her lips again. “No need to be gentlemanly.”

“No talking,” he commands.

~*~

He tried to be gentlemanly. He was, by-and-large, a gentleman, after all. He managed to wrench himself from her lips and sit up, ignoring his already pretty embarrassingly large hard-on long enough to frown at her.

“That … was not clever,” he said. “And that’s not like you.”

“I know,” she agreed, but he noticed that she didn’t look particularly remorseful. She looked almost … no, not almost; entirely … turned on.

“So why did you do it?” he asked.

“Because I’m tired, Blaise.” She sighed and lay back down. “I’m tired of arguing with Ron all the time and not seeming to have anything to show for it. I’m tired of being constantly frustrated by him, but still loving him too much to leave him. And also, I’ll admit it. Petty though it sounds, I’m tired of having an unsatisfactory sex life. Sex with him is lovely and caring and all of those other nice things, but it’s just not what I want when I’m feeling so frustrated all the time. I want anger, and rawness. I want to leave feeling bruised and beaten, but oh-so-satisfied. I want relief, Blaise. I just want relief.” She looked up at him. “And I want it from somebody who I know can give it to me, no strings attached.”

“But … I … this is insanity!” he protested, stepping quickly away from her. “Your husband’s my work partner! ‘No strings attached’ doesn’t apply here at all! He would find out. There is no way he wouldn’t.”

“Yes there is,” she disagreed, climbing off the bed. “For one thing, it would only be this one time. For another, this is you we’re talking about. Blaise Zabini, liar extraordinaire. As if you can’t pretend that nothing happened. When I said ‘no strings attached’, I meant in the sense that neither of us is in love with the other, so there are no complications between us, right?”

He frowned. He could see himself having this sort of arrangement with a lot of the women he knew, and for it to remain completely complication-free. But she … the only person with whom there would most definitely be complications, was the very person who was asking him to do this.

But she’d said it herself. He was a liar. And he could lie to anyone.

He sighed, and looked back at her. She was regarding him eagerly. “It will be just the once, right?” 

“Absolutely,” she said, nodding with the enthusiasm of a small child being asked if they wanted to go to a theme park.

“I wouldn’t know what to do,” he said to her. “I don’t know what sort of stuff you like.”

“Don’t worry,” she answered. “I can guide you through that. I’m an excellent teacher.”

~*~

_She has been an excellent teacher_ , he thinks to himself as they pull his trousers and knickers off together. In no time he manages to wrench off her knickers as well. He shoves a hand hard at the juncture between her thighs and discovers that she is wet as anything for him. 

He grins at her evilly, a grin that she has helped him perfect, and commands that she take her bra off, as he will be otherwise occupied. She obeys him, trembling with anticipation. As she struggles with the clasp behind her back, he slides down her belly, licking down, down, until he reaches the thatch of unruly hair. He places the same hand as before on that thatch, and after running it in a seemingly gentle way over the curls, he grabs at them and pulls. Hard.

“Merlin, yes!” she cries, her body heaving off the bed. 

He smiles. It pleases him to know that he is the only one aware of her love for pain. He would like to see her husband do this to her.

He stops that train of thought. Thinking about Ron doesn’t ever help matters.

He wriggles a little further down, until his face is right in front of her moist opening. Without any warning he sticks two thick fingers into her, and starts to pump them up and down with aggression.

“Oh Blaise! Oh, oh! Don’t stop! More! More!”

He heeds her call. He inches closer and, after some nuzzling, starts licking at her sensitive nub of pleasure with his tongue. She lifts herself off the bed again, and starts thrusting violently against his face. He can feel the tension in her thighs, and knows she’s close, so close. So he adds another finger, pushing it in as far as it can go, knowing she loves the feel of her walls stretching to accommodate the roughness of his fingers. He pumps and pumps, and before too long she almost screams his name as waves of pleasure overcome her in her orgasm. 

But he doesn’t stop there. Over-stimulation, he hears, is painful. So after her shaking and jolting subside he keeps on going, replacing his tongue on her clit with those rough fingers she loves. She shrieks, and it looks as though she is trying to worm away from his touch, but he growls and launches himself up, pinning her back down to the bed.

“We’re done when I say we’re done. Do you hear me?”

Her breaths are coming in short gasps. He can feel her legs wriggling on either side of him, and can see the tears in her eyes. But she loves this. This is frustrating, and painful, and everything she wants. This is her release as much as it is his lie.

“I hear you,” she gasps, the tears falling down either side of her face.

“Good,” he snarls, pressing her onto the bed. He reaches across her, takes his wand from his dressing table, and utters a Drying Charm. He sees her squeeze her eyes shut. He reaches between them and feels her cunt, checking to make sure the charm worked. It did. There is no moisture there now.

He replaces his wand, takes his length in his hand, and without taking much more than one second to aim thrusts roughly into her dry pussy. She cries out from the roughness, and he struggles against the friction to get himself in.

“Oh! Oh Merlin,” she says, her cries becoming coherent. “So big…”

“So tight,” he responds, taking himself out of her and thrusting in again. Already he can feel her walls lubricating up with new arousal. 

“Already wet for me again, hey?” he asks, then for extra measure, adds “Slut.”

She nods, her eyes still closed. She’s pushing against him, clearly trying to get him in as far as he can possibly go without splitting her in half.

“That’s what I like to see,” he says. He continues to thrust, harder and harder, letting his hips bump against hers as hard as possible. He still fondles her clit with his rough finger, and as her movements start turning more frantic he leans down, takes a nipple in his mouth, and bites. 

She screams in pain, then in release, as her second orgasm washes over her. Before hers ends he comes as well, being careful not to cry out her name. Merlin knows what would happen if her name passed his lips at this point.

~*~

Her name passed his lips. The first time either of them had spoken in several hours.

“Hermione.”

She looked over at him and smiled. The smile wasn’t the innocent little thing he had grown used to in the past six months. This one was more nervous and uncertain.

“I should go,” she said.

He nodded, unsure of what to say. He didn’t think there was anything he could say that wouldn’t somehow give everything up. 

Anything truthful, anyway.

She climbed out of the bed, underwear again on, and smiled down at him as she picked her dress up off the floor.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said. “Really. It means a lot to me.”

He nodded again, looking just past her head and out the window, where a few stars could be seen, despite the night’s cloud cover.

She approached him, and before he could object she placed a kiss on his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered.

That brought him back to attention like a moderate-to-severe electric shock. He stared at her, eyes wide. Had she really said what he thought she’d said—?

And then he noticed the twinkle in her eye, and the smile tugging at her lips. “Got you,” she said.

He felt everything inside him sag, to such an extremity that he was sure everything had inflated at her previous words, with a wild sort of hope that he hadn’t dared to have at all in the past six months. 

Shaking himself, he tried to offer her a crooked smile. He didn’t think he’d managed it, but she hadn’t seemed to notice. “I love you too,” he said, with what he was relieved to hear was a relatively carefree voice.

She grinned, blew a kiss at him and left the room. He flopped back down, thanking his lucky stars that the evening was over, and was never going to happen again.

~*~

Five years later, and it is still happening, at least once a week, every week. Except holidays.

Five years later, and she is still coming to him in frustration, asking him, first with words and actions, then with words, then just with the look in her indecently absorbing eyes, to give her what she wants.

Five years later, and he is still giving it to her, bruising her, marking her, hurting her in a way that she desperately wants, and he hates himself more than anyone, or anything in the world, for doing it.

Five years later, and he still wants nothing more than to make proper, passionate, gentle, wonderful love to her. To take all of the time, care, and patience in the world. To run his hands through that impossibly messy, curly brown hair. To stare at her, and get absorbed in those eyes. To treat her like the princess he believes she is. To make her feel like she is the singular most important person in his world, which is exactly what she is.

Five years later, and he is still hopelessly in love with her.

And this is still his lie. 

She slips out of his bed. Out of her spot on his bed, as it has come to be. He cannot sleep on that side of the bed any more. He sees the glint of her wedding ring as she pulls her knickers back on, and he thinks guiltily of the matching ring he has in his bedside table drawer; the ring he puts on occasionally, in the dead of night, and uses to pretend that he’s married to the only woman he’s ever wanted.

She comes up to him and, as always, gives him a kiss on the cheek. It takes everything he possesses not to lean in to the hand that cups his face.

“I love you,” she whispers.

There it is. The only lie that she ever tells him.

“I love you too,” he replies, raising a hand in farewell as she leaves the bedroom and lets herself out of the front door.

And there it is for him: The only true thing he ever tells her.

He is a liar. He can lie to anybody. He can say that she means nothing to him, and that he’s only in it for the animalistic sex and the sense of satisfaction he feels knowing that he can make her feel like her husband never can. He can say that he will eventually get over her, and find somebody who will love him in return.

But when it starts again, with that same unmistakable knock on the door, he’ll look into those brown eyes, asking him to tell his lie again, and he’ll know that he is only lying to himself.


End file.
